The next few rainy weeks were spent in a grim wrestling match with the combined warbands of the Iron Warriors and Black Legion. With their troops arriving in force, the Black Legion was free to assault the main body of the Battlegroup Sonnen’s fortifications in the valley. This allowed the Iron Warriors to concentrate on their efforts to rebuild their own defense works throughout the area of operations. Their own reinforcements harassed flanks, overran outposts, and some long-range groups even assailed the mountain fortresses which ran along the northern side of the valley on a line from Kasr Sonnen.
Meanwhile, the embattled Imperial defenders clung to their territory as best they could. Heavy artillery continued to act as a shield, cutting off the Heretic Astartes and their demented followers before they could seize a position. Aeronautica Imperialis wings were being detached from Battlegroup Cadia or dispatched from nearby planetside installations. More Interior Guard and Shock Trooper Regiments were arriving as well, filling gaps in the lines and giving the more worn-out units time to recuperate in rear positions. Kasr Sonnen’s manufactorums and the battlegroup’s own local facilities steadily produced wargear on an around-the-clock schedule, supplying the troops with fresh wargear from flak armor and M36 lasguns to Leman Russ Main Battle Tanks and prefabricated defense works.
But reinforcements struggled to get through to them. Those that were airdropped by Valkyries were continually harassed by heretical fliers which struck at great speed and at moments when the fleets of dropships were vulnerable: landing and taking off. Because of their steady advance, the Black Legion seized the majority of the all-weather roads the joint Adeptus Astartes-Astra Militarum force fought so hard to retake from the Iron Warriors. Unable to bring in men, armor, and supplies by the road hub, they were forced to rely on the southern route. Convoys were slowed due to the steep terrain and by having to first enter Kasr Sonnen and then follow the circuitous route down the opposite side of the ridgebacks to enter the valley. Occasionally, the regiments manning blocking positions along the all-weather roads attempted to send relief columns through but after half a dozen were destroyed, General Battye ordered all breakthrough attempts to cease. The blocking positions were imperiled as well and needed as much manpower as the valley defense.
Black Legionnaires continued to harass the flanks and the Iron Warriors’ renewed artillery bombardments made life miserable for the troops on the frontline. Even though they were steadily giving ground to the enemy, however, they managed to fight well and were continually cheered by the presence of the Adeptus Astartes. Those battle brothers who were not actively engaged in frontline positions were held in reserve along the second series of trenches. This gave them greater flexibility in countering hostile maneuvers. If a breakthrough occured or seemed likely to happen, they would plug the gaps and assist the Astra Militarum troops until the enemy attack abated. The strategy worked well to blunt enemy attacks and give friendly forces chances to conduct a tactical withdrawal. The troops’ morale, although damaged, did not sap further.
Those first weeks, when the enemy was counterattacking in force and the lines were destabilizing, there was no chatter around the cooking fires, no boasting between the regiments as to who was braver or more skilled in combat, and no singing. Many were ashamed of their flight. Combined with their want for success, repeated failures in their assaults, and continually giving swathes of ground, it was hard for the Imperial Guardsmen to walk with their heads held high. They remained confident in combat and their dispositions grew more cheerful. One could hear the typical chorus of laughter from dugouts during meal hours as well as the banter between different soldiers. At night, the troops sang all manner of bawdy songs with crass lyrics, if just to remind themselves of the comforts of a kasr soldier’s hall. Even if these were but mere distractions between the next battle or watch detail, their spirits were gladdened.
Marsh Silas, Bloody Platoon, and the rest of 1st Company maintained their first-day objective: keeping the frontline linked between the center force, consisting of some of their old friends of the 95th Cadian Regiment and the 45th Altridge on the extreme left. In that time, Marsh Silas and his fellows taught the Altridge in the manners of Cadian warfare. They helped them maintain their wargear, schooled them in the art of trench and siege warfare, and taught them to conserve their supplies. At first, the Lieutenant feared his Guardsmen would not be willing to aid the off-worlders, but much to his delight, they took it up with ease and vigor. Their proximity to the Altridge, and their assistance to one another, made life in the trenches a far more tolerable.
At night, Marsh Silas had taken to checking the trenches to make sure the men of the Altridge Regiment’s 5th Company and a squad from Bloody Platoon were pulling watch duty together. He liked them to be spread out far enough so that they wouldn’t be wiped out by a single enemy artillery shell but could still communicate via hand signals. After completing his evening inspection, he would find Lieutenant Afdin. They would sit on a cutting into the trench wall where soldiers who were not required to stand-to during watch could rest. At first, they would just smoke together, Marsh Silas with his pipe and Afdin with his hand-rolled lho-sticks. But eventually they began to chat.
On this particular night, nearly a month after the Black Legion’s arrival, the Altridge fellow brought a strange looking device. It was made of wood with an extended circular base that had a hole cut in the center and a long neck about the width of a man’s palm. Strings stretched from the end of the neck all the way to the base, even over the hole. At the end of the neck was a piece of wood with little metal knobs the strings tied off to. Afin noticed Marsh’s staring, chuckled, and began to strum his fingers across the strings.
“You folks ain’t something like this on Cadia?”
“You’d have to look to the high officer castes to find an appreciation for some manner o’ musical finery,” Marsh replied, sitting back against the trench with his pipe clenched between his lips. “All we know are good ol’ marching music, drill tunes, and soldier’s songs. You don’t need a contraption like that to sing to.”
Marsh finished signing a report and handed it back to Walmsley Major. “Send them a piece of the wire to make sure they know we went.”
“Aye, sir.” The platoon sergeant departed. Marsh glanced back at Afdin, who gazed at him curiously.
“These trench raids are beginning to become quite regular. Forgive me, I don’t think I heard your men go out for the second time.” He smiled handsomely. “I suppose I was asleep.” Marsh chuckled, nodded, and leaned back against the wall of the trench. The gentle music from Afdin’s strange instrument was oddly soothing.
“Isaev wants to increase the tempo of trench raids. Snatching prisoners and bringing them back to command for interrogation always looks good on the after-action reports. Of course, he fails to mention that most of the people we bring back are low-level cadres. They know less than we do out here. I’m not risking my men on a dangerous raid that does no good.”
“I thought Cadians always followed orders. I’ve heard tales of how you embrace the warrior spirit.”
“Just because I have a warrior’s spirit does mean I am foolish. War is a teacher and it makes men wise. I will commit myself and my men to any task that is worthwhile. Under officers such as Giles and Eastoft, or the Astartes Thule, Galen, and Evander, it always is. But Isaev? Nay. That man seeks to redeem himself and will do so through his men. These raids serve no purpose and reward us only with medals, not information. Cadians value awards, but I value their lives more. So yes, I lie about one every so often. A spool of enemy wire we captured does the trick.” Marsh opened a sleepy eye and gazed at Afdin. “Will you rat on me?”
“I don’t think I could. I’m asleep most nights.” The two men laughed. Afdin kept strumming whilst the fingers of his opposite hand curled, pressed, and slid up and down the neck. The pitch of the notes changed, growing a little higher and brighter. Marsh continued to watch him play.
“It’s called a guitarran.”
“Sounds like High Gothic.”
“Oh, do you know the tongue?”
“Just a little.”
“I had to be versed in it for my occupation back on Altridge,” Afdin replied. He was smiling a little bit as he played the guitarran and didn’t look up. “Altridge is a Civilized World and although we be Emperor-worshiping folk, not every lesson is taught within the cathedral or the training fortress. There are schools for children who will one day serve this Imperium. Some go to the manufactorums, others might do well enough to get into better schools, and one day they’ll become merchants or entrepreneurs, trading and selling all manner of goods across the planet.”
He finished playing the song and affectionately tapped the wooden furniture of the guitarran. Marsh Silas took his pipe from his lips and tugged up his collar. The night air was damp and cool. Afdin brushed some of the moisture nestling in his auburn locks away and smiled up at the sky. “I miss the snow. I never saw any until I came to this place,” he said wistfully. “Altridge is a very warm planet. It’s never quite chilly, even during the rainy season.”
“Winters are long in these parts of Cadia. Warm days will come soon enough.” Marsh pointed at the guitarran with the neck of his pipe. “I thought you taught children rhetoric, not music.”
“Oh indeed, I did teach rhetoric,” was his satisfied reply. “To expound upon ideals with eloquence, poise, and the ability to persuade. No student who desired a career in politics or interplanetary relations would dare skip such a course. Ten years I spent educating youths to become great speakers. I took a great deal of pride in that. But, I practiced music personally. Occasionally I incorporated it into my lessons. Music is, in itself, a manner of elocution. It can serve as politically, socially, culturally, even militarily in the case of you Cadias.”
Afdin’s smile grew very somber then and he looked down at the duckboards. The ground underneath the boards was dark and muddy. Much of the soil spattered the boards and created clots in the spaces between them. In the low-light of the moon, they appeared as dark splotches that lacked any kind of definition.
Marsh Silas puffed on his pipe stoically and observed the man for a few moments. Afdin’s eyes were studious and wise, there were a few lines across his forehead indicating his creased brow, and the way his stubble grew gave him the appearance of someone older.
“But your duty drew you away.”
“Duty, or so I was told,” Afin said. “The Emperor’s Gift occurs on Altridge ever fifty solar years. The demand for soldiery increased and many who were not already serving in the Planetary Defense Force were drafted. The best of us formed new Militarum regiments and were sent to the stars.”
“To be chosen to serve in the Emperor’s armies is a great honor,” Marsh Silas, folding his arms across his chest and nodding approvingly.
“Just military posts are honorable?
“Well, perhaps, any post in which a man serves his people is honorable,” Marsh conceded. “I haven’t ever really thought about it that way before. In all my soldier’s life, I’ve seen little of those outside this Emperor’s army.”
“I know service in the Astra Militarum is an honor for Cadians. But it is your birthright to such an honor, for you are a warlike people. The Emperor made you so.” Afdin leaned back against the wall of the trench, his shoulder brushing against Marsh’s. “That is well and good. Altridge was a place of many peoples and ideals, a place where folk worked hard to not only better the Imperium but themselves. Even the nobles had to rely on the sweat of their own brows and the ethic of their works to earn the Emperor’s light. I was able to rise to my post, from pupil to master, to extend teachings to generations and generations. Is it not just as important to have learned people in our grand Imperium as we do soldiers? Must we always rely on warriors to preserve the Imperium? Will the soldiery be the ones to maintain its glory?”
This he said holding his hands out, not quite a shrug but a kind of imploring to no one in particular. Marsh Silas could see the exasperation etched in face and the sadness ingrained in his eyes. He looked forward again and lowered his pipe.
“It wasn’t until a little over a year ago I learned to read,” Marsh admitted. “I still have much to improve upon. Have to work on my penmanship according to my dear friend, although at least I speak better now. But I wasn’t much concerned with taking up such things until another friend pestered me enough about it.”
Excuse me, sir, it was not quite as simple as that. Marsh Silas chuckled to himself. “He helped me realize that ideas, teaching, opening yourself up, putting your energy into learning, these are not such bad things.”
“Your friend sounds very wise.”
I like this Afdin.
“Aye, he was. We talked very much. Argued sometimes. Debated, as it were. He and I wanted to make some great changes to this Imperium. I still do. A soldier and a learned man don’t have to be two different souls. Put those two together and you won’t be maintaining glory, you’ll be making it anew. Or at least, I hope so.”
Afdin did not speak for a few moments and this made Marsh Silas feel uncomfortable. Nervously, the neck of his pipe just a space away from his lips, he glanced over. The Altridge officer was gazing at him curiously. When their eyes met, they looked forwards again.
“You’re a strange one.”
“I suppose I am.”
“I like you, Silas. You’re about the first Cadian who truly treated me with any respect.”
“You’ve come to Cadia at a choice time,” Marsh said, deflecting the flattering comment. “I used to hate you tithe-worlders. I thought you scum, for it was a tithed soldier who murdered my own father in an act of treachery. But you’re not all the same.” He held his pipe over to him. “Ye have a chance at becoming Cadian yet.”
Afdin took the pipe, puffed on it, and exhaled slowly. He breathed deeply, then his eyes popped and he smiled happily.
“Smooth!”
“Sure is.”
“You are a singer, are you not? How about a tune, then? Sing on, and I’ll follow. Make it a sad one.”
“Who wants to hear a sad song?”
“Melancholy is sometimes best reciprocated with melancholy, friend. We’ll sing a jaunty one tomorrow before we strike the damnable foe again.
It didn’t take Marsh Silas long to think of one.
“Along a windswept battlefield,
of shattered shield and broken spear,
a moor where fates are signed and sealed,
the darkened smoke does dare reveal,
comrades lost who did not yield.”
Afdin started playing. The chords he struck were slow but rhythmic, their tones somber but mystic. They matched the deep falls in Marsh’s voice and hung in the air when he drew the words out.
“Their hearts beat still, their eyes are pale,
their wage is froze, their armor’s billed,
their souls have left amid a widow’s wail,
their bones been placed, the grave is filled,
and a no more—”
There was a shifting noise to the left. Marsh stopped singing at the same moment Afdin’s fingers froze. Their heads snapped in the direction of the sound.
“Vesna?” Afdin whispered to the sentry posted closest to them. “Was that you?”
There was no reply. Marsh Silas and Afdin stood up slowly, the former drawing his Ripper Pistol while the latter picked up his M36. Side by side, they walked down the trench, their weapons raised to a low-ready position. Silvanus, I can’t sense this Vesna. But there is a presence close. Tread lightly. Barlocke’s voice was dark and foreboding; it felt as though some hidden hand in his mind were sliding their hand across a cold rockcrete wall.
They came across the sentry, standing on the parapet and resting against the sandbags which lined the lip of the trench. “Vesna, what goes?” Afdin asked again. When Vesna didn’t answer, Afdin took the man by his shoulder and jostled him. The Guardsman immediately slumped back into the trench. His throat was cut.
Silvanus, look out! Marsh Silas turned to the parapet and saw half a dozen masked figures leap into the trench. He raised his pistol, squeezed the trigger, and swept it from left to ride. Bullets cut down several of the assailants but two of them landed right against him. The force sent him stumbling back against the opposite wall of the trench. When one attempted to tackle him, he shot him down but a second hit him in the side of the head with the butt of his autogun.
The blow was sharp and hard. His vision blurring and ears ringing, Marsh tumbled to the side. Attempting to recover, he turned and raised his pistol. Another heretic grabbed his arm and forced it against the trench wall, slamming it so hard several times that he lost his grip on his sidearm. Looking past the heretic in this moment, he saw Afdin pressed up against the same wall and struggling to keep his M36 out of a heretic’s hands.
Just as it seemed like he was about to lose his grip, he purposefully let go, drew his laspistol, and fired. The single lasbolt struck the heretic in the chest and threw him against the wall. “Heretics in the wire!” he screamed. “Heretics in the wire!” As he yelled, he whirled towards Marsh and shot the two heretics pinning him against the wall. Others jumped in, ignoring the two Guardsmen. They posted themselves nearby and started firing their autoguns into the trench as the sounds of responding Imperial troops were heard. Bullets snapped and lasbolts sizzled and seethed. There were yellow, blue, and red flashes. Grenades exploded, showering them with earth.
More heretics came piling in. Marsh scrambled for his Ripper Pistol but instead was hit in the face and sides. But he slid his trench knife from its scabbard and slashed the first man who tried to pin him across the face. It opened the sack hood he was wearing, revealing deathly pale skin that was tight on the skull. Afdin shot a few more but when he reloaded, he too was assailed by several heretics. Marsh ran for him, attempting to stab one of the heretics in the back. But a blow from the side knocked him over and he swung wildly. The shadowy heretic leaped back, dodging the blow, and tried to grab him. Instead of defending, Marsh charged and stabbed him in the belly. The weight of his assault carried the heretic over to the opposite wall of the trench and he gored him then, twisting the blade.
He withdrew it, feeling blood on his hand. Before he could race for Afdin, somebody jumped down on top of him. A heretic on either side restrained his arms. Forced to the ground, his heart throbbing in his throat, his breath coming out in heated snorts and growling rasps, he watched as Afdin was similarly pushed down.
“It’s him!” snarled one.
“Take him to Summanus!” another spoke giddily.
“No, Consus! He’ll reward us.”
“But it was Summanus who sent us.”
“Shut up! Take them both before the wretches set upon us!”
One of their hands pressed Marsh’s face into the dirt next to the duckboards. Groaning, he closed his eyes so the dirt didn’t get in. He grunted as a few booted feet kicked him in the sides and stomped on the back of his legs. Then, they picked him and Afdin up and started to carry them out of the trench. Marsh and his companion did their best to fight and struggle, but they were restrained by so many of the foul heretics they could hardly move.
Pop! Just as Marsh was pulled from the trench, a flare exploded overhead. The heretics, diligent in their task, ignored it and kept carrying him out. Suddenly, there were lasbolts and bolt-shells. Heretics began to fall, losing limbs and breaking into pieces from the explosive rounds. In the confusion, Marsh managed to break free and tried to reach Afdin, but was quickly subdued again. Fists fell on his gut, knocking the wind from him.
Falling onto his back, he tried to push them away but it was no use. They grabbed his arms and began to drag him. Marsh watched the trench slide slowly away from him, even as muzzle flashes glowed. Then, in the light of the flare, hulking figures emerged. Blood Ravens came sprinting towards the trench, leaped over it, and drew their massive daggers. With them were Captain Galen and his Scouts and Janus the White Consul! Smashing into the party of heretics, they stabbed them through, cut them in half, beheaded, crushed, and tore. Pulp and blood stained the muddy ground.
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When a heretic attempted to level a shotgun, Captain Thule appeared with his thunder hammer. Roaring, the Space Marine swung and struck his puny opponent so hard the hammer split him half. Blood splashed onto the dirt and the heretic’s upper half landed a few meters away from its legs.
Thule reached down and plucked Marsh Silas from the ground. Galen likewise took Afdin and the squad of Blood Ravens escorted them back to the trench. Just as they all climbed back in, enemy artillery started to fall.
Shivering, Marsh fell into the bottom of the trench and sat up. A lamp-pack was immediately thrust into his face.
“Stop, you’re blinding him!” Carstensen said, pushing Honeycutt out of the way. She held Marsh by his shoulders. “Are you hurt badly? Are you hit?” Her hands patted him from his shoulders all the way down to his legs, searching for a wound.
“His face is swelling up. Bad cut on the temple. Commissar, let me work,” Honeycutt insisted. When he tried to move in, Carstensen shoved him away and continued checking.
“I’m fine,” Marsh wheezed, trying to regain his breath and then pointed desperately at Afdin. “Check him, check him.”
Afdin was not hit either but he received a heavy blow to his eye. It was now purple and swollen. Walcott swiftly treated him. Afdin lifted his hand and nodded.
A shell landed close by and showered them with earth.
“Remove yourselves to the dugout,” Captain Thule ordered.
Carstensen and Honeycutt each took one of Marsh’s arms and helped him back to the closest bunker. Walcott and the other Guardsmen present brought Afdin. The Blood Ravens and other Astartes, very calmly under the artillery barrage, joined them in the bunker.
Marsh and Afdin were seated side by side, given water, and soon the medics and chirurgeons tended to their many abrasions, cuts, and swellings.
“Captain Thule, Captain Galen, we are in your debt,” Marsh finally managed to say, still shaking from fear and adrenaline.
“Fuck. Fuck.” Afdin shivered. “What was that!?”
“Prisoner snatch,” Carstensen said, kneeling beside Marsh. “Trenching raiding is commonplace, Lieutenant. They do as we do.”
“Fuck!” Afdin swore again. “Poor, poor Vesna. What will happen to his wife and babe?”
“The enemy grows bolder,” Thule remarked aloud.
“Force Commander, we have finished checking the corpses. It appears these are new arrivals, a band from the Lost of the Damned known as the Band of Dusk, devotees to the Black Legion,” Janus said as he walked in. “They continue to bring reinforcements.”
In the light of the lamp-pack, Thule’s brow grew heavier and his gaze seemed troubled. Janus stood by, confused. Beside him, Endymion stood with a certain apprehension. When the Force Commander did not speak, he took a step closer.
“Brother Captain, the Black Legion—”
“I know,” Thule grunted.
“If the Chapter Master—”
“I know.” Thule shut his eyes and shook his head. “He has already contacted me once with orders to disengage.”
Marsh and the gaze of every other Imperial Guardsmen present in the bunker turned towards the Blood Raven. Violet eyes bulged with shock and horror at the very thought of their leaving. Thule noticed their imploring, frightened gazes and turned to Endymion. “Once the barrage ceases, post our Astartes from the Angels Eradicant, Viper Legion, and Iron Talons along this line. We shall maintain a vigilant watch to relieve the Guardsmen for a time. They have work to do in the morning. Then, we shall return to our original positions to await further orders.”
Endymion nodded and stood by the entrance to the bunker. Thule turned to Marsh Silas and walked over, his power armor thudding on the rockcrete floor. It was only then that the platoon leader realized the Force Commander was holding both his trench knife and Ripper Pistol. “You shall need these on the morrow, I presume.”
“Thank you, sir,” Marsh replied graciously, bowing his head.
The barrage ended soon after and the Blood Ravens filtered out. Thule waited until they’d all left to follow. But Marsh Silas, warding off a concerned Honeycutt and Carstensen, stood up and hurried to the door. “Captain, please. Why must you leave?”
Thule gazed down at him almost sympathetically. The heaviness of his brow and darkness of his eyes seemed alleviated for a moment. Turning his head, he looked down at the ground for a time. He seemed rather sad then and Marsh was most surprised. All the Space Marines he’d seen in the past weeks, those few who did not wear helms at the least, were so stoic and brave. In the face of overwhelming odds, they fought on with such diligence, honor, grace, and dutifulness. Their leaving in the face of an enemy they’d fought so long was unthinkable.
Eventually, Thule managed to meet Marsh’s violet gaze once more.
“Our Chapter Master dislikes engagements with the Black Legion,” he said quietly. “I cannot ignore the threat they pose, however. In the name of the Emperor, my Blood Ravens and I shall remain as long as we can.”
“You would do that for us?” Marsh Silas asked.
“If you are perfectly willing to lay down your lives for Cadia, then so are we.”
Thule passed through the door, bowing his head so as to not hit the rockcrete edge. Marsh stood in the entrance, watching him march down the trench. The Blood Raven seemed especially noble in the young Cadian’s eyes, even though his gait was slow and his conscience was quite heavy.
“Come Silas,” Afdin said, taking his arm. “Let us rest a while. Captain Thule is right. We’ve much to do on the morrow.”
Marsh Silas took a moment to look at him, but eventually nodded. His heart was finally calm and sleep seemed quite a desirable thing.
***
“Sir, with respect, bypassing Elevation 142 is very dangerous,” Marsh Silas said to a stewing Colonel Isaev. “A commanding, two-hundred forty degree view of the battlespace is not something we can give to the enemy during one of our attacks. At least allow my men and I to join the 45th Altridge’s 3rd Company and 5th Companies in seizing that hill!”
“Cross, at every brief you, Giles, and other officers have nothing but excuses and rebukes for me!” Isaev snapped from across the bunker. “I am your superior officer, you should obey my commands without question!”
“Colonel, Lieutenant Cross is not acting insubordinately,” Captain Galen said. “We have reports from my scouts and the White Consuls’ scouts that Elevation 142 is a threat to this general attack. Force Commander Thule and General Battye have discussed the target as well.” He punctuated it by pointing at it on the map.
Elevation 142 was the topographical designation for a hill at the foot of the ridgebacks on the western side of the Sonnen Plateau. It was seized by the Band of Dusk who installed a mortar battery. Although the majority of the ranges were much higher than it, the hill was an excellent fortification. It was wide, the slopes were gradual, and studded with rocks and vegetation, making it easy to entrench. The top was flat, allowing artillery pieces to be easily emplaced. What’s more, with the ridgebacks to its rear, it couldn’t be assailed from all sides and the attackers would be subject to enfilading fire. Its proximity to Imperial lines also made it an excellent observation post and anytime the frontline regiments were relieved, they’d be subject to intense medium and long-range artillery.
Isaev, cowed by the Imperial Fist’s counter, huffed and waved his hand.
“Very well. If you so wish to detach from the glorious assault to take a meaningless hill, that is your prerogative. Marsh and Giles saluted, then followed Captain Galen out.
“You’ll have artillery support until you hit the ridge, then the bombardment will divert to ward off any reinforcements,” Captain Giles said hastily. “We’ll be sweeping from the center to the right. 5th Company will come down the center with us and then sweep left so we can encircle the approaches. 3rd Company will advance up the ridgebacks and knock out any gun positions overlooking the hill. If you take Elevation 142 and hold it, we may be able to advance the line and retake some lost ground. We very well may regain the initiative of this damnable siege. We’ll try to get some tanks over to you but I cannot make guarantees. Go now, the Emperor protects.”
Marsh Silas put on his helmet and hurried down the trench. His face was still sore from the pounding he took last night but it was mitigated slightly by the stimms Honeycutt provided. He found Bloody Platoon assembled in their section with their bayonets fixed and wargear ready. Although there was not as much prideful boasting as there was on previous assignments, he could see their spirits were high. Men nodded, smiled, and shook hands. At the link, he found Walmsley Major and Lieutenant Afdin.
“Walmsley, we’re going with them, check the men.” The platoon sergeant obeyed and Marsh took Afdin’s hand. “I told you we’d come with. No time for a smoke.”
“We’ll have one at the top of the hill.”
“Emperor’s blessings with you,” Marsh Silas said, shaking his hand.
“And to you, friend.”
Marsh knew it was hasty, the platoon had been aware of the mission but hadn’t prepared for it. But with Eastoft, Ghent, and Isenhour both joining the platoon, and with the Altridge Guardsmen better prepared, he was confident they would succeed.
Stepping onto the parapet, he watched the artillery shells fall on the ridgebacks and Elevation 142. Huge columns of black earth and rain fell steadily. From a distance of four hundred meters, he couldn’t make out any of the enemy’s fighting holes. When he raised his magonoculars, however, he could see the lips of holes, the sticks and foliage they piled up around their concealed positions, and even the barrels of some of their heavy stubbers.
“Bloody Platoon, listen up!” Walmsley Major yelled. “You’re light, today! Weapons and ammunition only. If it can’t kill a heretic, you’re to leave it behind. You don’t stop unless it’s to pick up a wounded man. When we hit that first slope, use the rocks for cover. 1st and 3rd Squads, hit them with grenades. 2nd, 6th, and 7th Squads, we’ll push them with bayonets. Walmsley Minor!?”
“Staff Sergeant!?”
“The moment you see we’ve gotten halfway up the hill, move the heavy weapons. Squads up to us. Deploy smoke for cover.”
“Wilco!”
“May the Emperor be with you all!” Marsh yelled. “See you at the top, men!”
The bombardment intensified. Men trembled with adrenaline, their fingers drummed on the ladder rungs and the sandbags. Exhaling heavily, murmuring prayers, patting their wargear down. Marsh closed his eyes, gave a thought to the Emperor, one to his beloved Carstensen, a third to his mother, and one more to his dear friend Hyram. The whistles blew.
“For Emperor and Imperium!” Bloody Platoon screamed and heaved themselves over the top.
Marsh looked left and saw 5th Company swarming towards the hill. 3rd Company swept across the ridgebacks, shooting as they ran. He looked right. 1st Company’s formation loosened as mortar shells started to fall among them. Earth and rock showered his helmet and flak armor. NCOs shouted for the men to hurry onward. Heavy stubber rounds raked across the soil, spattering their filthy trousers with even more dirt. The mud they ran through was light, slowing them little. Rain and clots of dirt sprayed his face each time an enemy burst struck nearby. Over their heads, the heavy weapons squads pounded the hill with devastating firepower. Captain Galen, Chaplain Anato, Janus, and other White Consuls scouts, also charged.
The artillery barrage moved right onto the main enemy position. As it slackened, the enemy’s fire intensified. Marsh Silas was biffed and buffeted by bracketing mortar shells, but he picked himself and kept running. Bloody Platoon hit the slope of the hill and some of the men immediately laid down. They started whipping grenades up the slope at heavy stubber muzzle flashes. Grenades detonated in rapid succession—thump, whump-thump-whump—and then the Guardsmen advanced.
Marsh Silas lobbed a grenade into a hole a few meters ahead of him. It exploded in a shower of brown earth and he heard screaming. Darting forward, feeling the concussion of autogun slugs snapping by his face, he jumped in. He bayoneted the two survivors and then went to the opposite end of the hole for cover, as enemies in a higher position were shooting at him. Marsh stood back up, squeezing off shots. Other Guardsmen came up to his position, sliding behind rocks or crawling along felled logs. Fleming knelt to fire his grenade launcher but was suddenly stuck in the lower back beneath his flak armor. He cried out and tumbled to his side, writhing, and called for a medic.
Marsh turned to see the barrel of an autogun sticking out of a concealed position.
“Contact rear! Spider hole!” he shouted and immediately suppressed the position. Gunnery Sergeant Wulff scrambled up to it, lifted the wooden lid which was covered with grass and leaves, and slid a grenade into it. She jumped away just as the resulting explosion blew the lid off.
All around, Guardsmen dipped the lasguns into spider holes and gun positions, firing blindly. Drummer Boy forced his barrel into one spider hole only to have his M36 ripped from his grasp. When the heretic jumped up, Rowley the Whiteshield quickly gunned him down. Eastoft leapt into a heavy stubber position, bayoneting one of the defenders and grappling with the others. The officer clutched him by the throat and struck him furiously in the face several times. Tossing the heretic down, she removed the big gun from its tripod, gripped it with both hands, and slammed it down on the heretic’s head repeatedly.
Marsh crawled to the top of the hill. Bursts of autogun fire and lasbolts struck the ground near his face just as he emerged. Above him, he saw the muzzle flashes of so many guns along the ridgebacks firing at him. They couldn’t wait for 3rd Altridge company. When he looked over his shoulder, he could see the heavy weapons squads already moving up. The attacking force was committed and if they stalled now, they’d lose the initiative.
Rolling onto his back, he got the attention of the Guardsmen around him. It was too loud for him to be heard, so he balled one of his fists up and then ran his other hand over it, indicating a grenade attack. Everyone unclipped a fragmentation grenade from their chest rigs, yanked the pins, released the spoons, and lobbed them. The detonations rocked the hill.
Marsh stood up, waving them on. “Follow me! Give’em everything you’ve got!”
With a roar, they charged onto the top of the hill. At the same time, Afdin came racing over the crest. The officer twirled his sword over his head and yelled at the top of his lungs. His men overcame the gunners in a swarm of bayonets and grenades.
Unable to find any more targets, Marsh turned his attention on the enemy gunners above him. It was a difficult angle, as the ridgebacks were quite steep and he had to lean back very far. Some of the men went so far as to lie on their backs or against the inner reverses of fighting holes to shoot up. Walmsley Minor established a line of heavy weapons along the crest without tripods or mounts so they could train the weapons upwards. But the enemy poured their fire on, sometimes dropping grenades or letting them bounce down the declines right into the Imperial position.
Figures started emerging on the jagged slopes of the ridgebacks.
“Is that the 3rd Company!?” Marsh yelled as he entered the makeshift CP, a large open dugout where his command squad and Galen had stationed themselves.
“Enemy reinforcements!” Commissar Ghent hollered. “Contact front!”
“Contact right, contact right!” Eastoft yelled. “They’re coming from their trenches! By the Emperor, it’s the tanks of the Black Legion!”
“Our armor is beginning to advance!” Galen shouted, pointing back towards their lines. Sure enough, Leman Russ MBTs and supporting infantry were now entering open ground. Artillery was falling in their midst. Streams of heavy fire were emitting from the enemy’s trenchworks. “Afdin, where the fuck is the 3rd Company! I cannot see them!”
Marsh organized Bloody Platoon so they were facing the eastern slope. Heretic Predator tanks formed a semicircle near the base of the hill and committed to volley-fire with their cannons. Each time a salvo hit, it felt like a wall of fire and steel was landing in front of him. It was impossible to stand up and fire. Guardsmen could only crawl up to the crest, shoot a few lasbolts, and then had to retreat for fear of a direct hit.
One clot of Altridge Guardsmen adjacent to his position suffered such a strike. It landed right in their center. Shrapnel tore through their flak armor, severed limbs, and sent them sprawling. Few survived; those that did were clutching bloody stumps where their legs used to be.
“Intervals, intervals!” Marsh Silas ordered, forcefully spreading the men out. Afdin ran by him, hands cupped around his mouth.
“Don’t bunch up! Spread it out!”
“Knaggs, Fletcher, do something about those tanks!” Marsh ordered.
“The launcher is in-op!” Knaggs shouted, waving his hand. “It’s damaged!”
“Fuck! Foster, Ledford, shift your Lascannon left! Left!”
The pair did as they were ordered, bravely moving the cumbersome weapon under the intense tank fire. They erected the weapon, fired, and sheared the turret off one of the enemy Predators. Marsh Silas crawled towards them to help direct their fire when a shell landed near them. He pressed his face into the dirt as hot shrapnel hammered the ground around him. Smaller pieces bounced off or bit into his flak armor. When he raised his head, he saw them lying there, moving only a little.
Foster sat up first, lifting himself off the busted weapon. His bionic jaw was hanging by its left hinge, swinging back and forth. Blood seeped from his mouth and a few of his teeth fell out. Ledford rolled onto his side and raised his right arm; it was amputated at the elbow. He was wide-eyed as he gazed at the stump.
In a blink, Marsh found himself kneeling over Ledford. He took out a tourniquet and closed it above the amputation. When he tightened it, Ledford screamed. There was no time to treat the small puncture wounds in his legs, back, and arms. Marsh Silas scooped up a handful of dirt and plugged the wounds with the soil, causing the gunner much agony. As Walcott dragged him away, he turned his attention to Foster, who had taken up his M36 and was shooting down at the approaching heretics and Traitor Marines. As he fired, Marsh grasped the swinging bionic jaw and snapped the hinge back into place. Then, he rolled bandages along the gunner’s exposed, burned forearms.
“They’re encircling us!” Carstensen yelled. “Silas, what are your orders!?”
Marsh Silas was dragging Foster away, the brave Shock Trooper still trying to shoot in his groggy state. Warriors from the Band of Dusk gave a great war cry and started charging up the slope. Those in the ridgebacks above them were flooding down the slopes like a waterfall. The 3rd Altridge was nowhere to be seen. Out on the plateau, the Imperial offensive was faltering in a haze of burning tanks and lines of dead Guardsmen.
“Not again, not again,” Marsh murmured as he dragged Foster back. They could hold—no, not without support. They needed this hill, but at what cost? He squeezed his eyes shut. “Fall back, fall back!” He picked Foster up and helped him down the opposite slope. Bloody Platoon and 5th Company bolted for friendly lines in complete disarray. Squads were all mixed up, even the regiments were scrambled together.
Marsh Silas ran as fast he could with Foster’s weight on him. Suddenly, there was a hot, electric pain in his right buttocks. He yelped and fell onto his hands and knees. Reaching back, he felt blood on the seat of his trousers. Groaning, he stood back up. Unseen hands grabbed him and he was whisked forward.
Janus and Carstensen were helping him along. Isenhour jogged alongside, supporting Foster. Grunting in pain, Marsh craned his neck and looked back. Hordes from the Band of Dusk rushed after them with their Black Legion masters marching steadily behind them. Tanks fired over their heads, hammering the Imperial positions. When they reached the first trench, many of the Guardsmen kept running.
“They’re not stopping for anything!” someone yelled. “Keep going!”
“Hold fast, hold fast!”
“Run for your lives, men!”
“Make a stand here, men!”
“All is lost!”
“Up and over, men, to the second line, we can’t hold here!”
It was a flurry of running troops piling down the trenches or climbing out onto open ground to get away. Marsh didn’t even have time to dress his wound. Men wailed and called on the Emperor for preservation. Bloody Platoon and many other Guardsmen barreled towards the second trench when a figure emerged from it. He trudged through the mud without a shirt, just boots and Militarum trousers. In his left hand, he carried a laspistol. His right arm and much of his chest was bionic and he was holding a power sword.
Bloody Platoon came to a halt in front of Lieutenant Hyram. Many other soldiers from the regiment as well as the 45th Altridge also stopped. Panting from the effort, the officer lifted his sword into the air. His violet eyes burned with vigor.
“Guardsmen!” he hollered. “You are brave sons of Cadia and Altridge! You are the Emperor’s soldiers! In His name, you will hold!”
“Stay with us, Guardsmen!” Marsh shouted, grabbing his brother. “Stay with us and fight on!” Hisheart swelled so greatly with admiration of Hyram’s courage he thought it would burst! Men broke into cheers and tears! He and Hyram breezed past them and raced for the trench the Band of Dusk were seizing. Hundreds of Guardsmen did the same, following the Lieutenants with an incredible vigor! Shooting and roaring, they slammed into the heretics as they attempted to charge past the trench. It was a push of bayonets! Shock Troopers and heretics fell all around, clutching bleeding wounds. Wounded men beneath them continued to struggle, hitting, kicking, strangling, and stabbing.
Finding himself between Hyram and Carstensen, his wound no longer afflicting him, Marsh threw himself into the trench. He pummeled one heretic with the stock of his M36, shot a second down, and ran a third through the belly with his bayonet. Carstensen flew into the fray, swinging her glowing power fist. Five of the heretics came at her but with a blow to the one in the center, the coiled-up energy exploded and decimated all five. The concussion burst their eyeballs, shattered their teeth, and slammed them against the trench’s wall. Hyram slashed a heretic across his chest, stabbed another through his neck, ducked under a sword swipe and cut a man from his feet. The soldier was brilliant in all his movements.
As they regained the trench, Hyram waved his sword. “Hold them! That’s it! That’s the Cadian style! Show them your mettle! Let them see the light in your eyes, men! That’s the Emperor’s light, my good men! Give it to them!”
Battle Cannons belched as Leman Russ tanks rolled up to the trench behind them and fired over their heads. Sponson-mounted heavy bolters tore through the enemy’s ranks. Adeptus Astartes marched with the tanks, lobbing grenades and joining the Imperial Guardsmen in the trenches. So strong was this counterattack that the Black Legion Astartes and their Predator tanks, now under intense artillery fire, could not reach the Imperial line.
“That’s it!” Marsh yelled triumphantly. “We’ll fight it out here all day and night! We’ll fight it out all week if we must! Keep on, you brave Guardsmen!”